It’s Half Term, and despite the fact that my offspring are brainy and bright they are sadly lacking in the ‘how to amuse ourselves’ department.
I blame myself. And society. It’s all society’s fault. When I was their age I was sent off in the morning with a jam sandwich and an apple and told to report back in time for tea.
And off I went, on my Chopper, ribbons flaring from the handlebars, not a care in the world. Off to the rope swing in the park, or the sandpit at the Tennis Club, or the stream in the woods.
Nobody knew where I was or who I was with. Paedophiles hadn’t been invented then.
There are zillions of paedophiles now though. On every street corner, behind every net curtain, in every van or Ford Mondeo, they lurk and linger and wait to pounce.
So my children are wrapped up in anti-paedo cotton wool, tagged with mobile phones, escorted to and fro, drilled in the anti-paedo warfare of whom to speak to, and whom not. Every second of their pampered and cosseted day accounted for.
No room to breathe or grow, or even cross the road alone. Left to their own devices what would they do? We did try last year. On a beach in Wales.
We put down the blanket and the frisbee and the picnic and the football and the buckets and the kite and the dinghy and said off you go then. But they didn’t go anywhere. They were lost and bewildered without a Director there to say ACTION.
And that is me, I am the Entertainment Committee. So today we scraped the barrel of the Shopping Mecca Trafford Centre Temple. Shopping’s entertainment isn’t it? The girls headed off to try on makeup/dresses/shoes.
Leaving Charles and me hanging over a balcony silently watching sad surreality.
The Tuesday Tea Dance. A four piece band accompanied dozens of purple permed pensioners as they quickstepped in slow motion around the quasi poop deck of an ocean going liner.
Stop and consider! Life is but a day;
A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way
From a tree’s summit…
John Keats 1817